We're going to do something a little different today.
Pinterest is a social “dream board” that's grown to gigantic proportions over the last year. If you aren't on Pinterest yet, you're a man.
Today, let's use it to find some writing inspiration. We're all going to find a picture on Pinterest that captures our imagination, we'll link to it, and then write about it here. Sound fun?
NOTE: If you aren't on Pinterest yet, you'll need to get an invite. Email me a note with your email address and “Pinterest” as the subject, and I'll get you in.
PRACTICE
Here's the Pinterest guide for writers.
Step 1. Log on to Pinterest and start browsing your friends “pins.” If you don't have any friends to browse, follow me!
Step 2. Once you choose a picture, pin it to the Writing Prompts board. This step is optional, but I think it would be super fun to have a group board of writing prompts. So if you'd like to join it, let me know what your pinterest email address is in the comments or over email and I'll add you to the board so you can pin your photo prompt there.
Step 3. Write for fifteen minutes! (You knew that was coming, right?)
Step 4. When you're finished, post your practice in the comments section at the bottom of this post. Also, copy and paste the link from the photo you've chosen into your practice so we know what you're writing about.
Step 5. Comment on a few other Pinterest Practices.
Here's mine:
He lived in the Mountain. When it got cold he built a fire and moved his very close and tilted his face toward the fire with his eyes closed until his face glows with warmth, and sometimes when I would watch him like this it seemed like his habitual grimace was actually a sort of smile, even if it was a very ugly smile. He sat like this often for it often gets cold when you live in a mountain.
He had lived beside the Mountain all his life. He was born in a village called Rodnicht in the foothills below but he told me he didn't like to spend his time in the village. He told me, his eyes flickering with reflected fire and his grimace smiling at me, he would come up to the Mountain early in the morning before the sun was awake. The Mountain is always awake, he said, and so he would climb up to its face to make friends.
“How do you make friends with a mountain?” I asked.
He sat there for a moment not answering, and his grimace really did look like a smile. “You must be very old to be friends with the Mountain. The Mountain is also very old.”
“But you were not very old when you first came up here, I'm sure?” I said, puzzled.
“Yes, you must be very old,” he said again. I didn't know if he didn't hear me, because by then he really was old, but I dropped it. I often wonder, though, if he did hear me. Perhaps even as a child he was a very old man.
Following you on Pinterest. Would like to join your Writing Prompts board. This is going to be fun. Off to spend my morning mentoring young moms, and then home to do my 15 minutes of writing. Can’t wait to search for my visual prompt.
?: When you say paste your link into “your ‘practice'”, what do you mean by “practice?” Have I missed a post explaining this, or is it in the comments section?
Hi Sherrey! I added you to the board. Check your email 🙂
I just mean paste the link of the photo you choose to the practice you do here in the comments.
Got it — off to write! 🙂
Fun idea, Joe. Here’s a link to a writing prompt entitled, “You can’t get scarves like this at Nordstrom.” http://pinterest.com/pin/235805730459207793/
I love it Cynthia! You’re right though. Not many department stores sell that kind of neckware. Although I question a cold blooded animal’s ability to keep your neck warm 🙂
Here’s mine. But I can’t seem to get 250 words when I do these.
Here’s the link to the pinterest:
http://pinterest.com/pin/271834527478473107/
My boots slipped on the slick rotting leaves and I realized I wandered off the road as I stared at the house. Barren trees stood like guards. Their gnarled branches wavered, shaking their long twiggy fingers at me warning me to stay away. I edged closer peering into the curtainless windows. The caw of a crow and my eyes wandered to the roof. It swooped down landing on a smokeless chimney. He spread his wings and his head turned in jerky movements as he perched on the edge. And then silence. My eyes darted to the door as it creaked open. A young girl glided past the threshold and hovered inches over the stone steps. She gripped a broom in both hands and straddled her legs over its handle. My breath caught in my throat as I watched her soar up into the milky sky, circle over the roof top and disappear in the fog.
That’s exactly what I expected when I saw the picture, except for the real witch and her being a young girl. Well done. I think when you can finish in less than 250 words you are doing well rather than not. Being concise is a sign of good writing IMO.
Thank you Marianne. That house looks like one where I grew up in New York State.
Even if I didn’t see the picture, I could image the scene from your description. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up a little when “… the door … creaked open.” Spooky and fun to read.
Alice, you’ve written a wonderful story which moves elegantly and tenderly through what sounds like on the “page” a somewhat frightening scene. Truly a great writing style.
That’s a wonderful entry Joe. It leaves you wondering about more than just the story.
Just found this blog, fantastic.
Here’s a link to the picture:
http://pinterest.com/pin/250442429248463780/
Thanks!
Cynthia took perfection and made it an art of her own. Her items organized themselves in an ideal way. She made them more than inanimate objects and infused them with a life of their own. A book was not just a spine grasping, well, written pages. Instead it was a member of an idealized whole, alphabetized in a six by four bookshelf, paperbacks with paperbacks, hardcovers with hardcovers. An artificial society rife with class division thrived.
At the moment, she stood in the freshly Windexed bathroom mirror, carefully applying a light coating of mascara. An aisle of international soaps sat on the hip level shelf to her left sequentially arranged by the time of travel to this country or that. A stray hair broke from the bun on the top of her head and jarred the scene with its otherness. Quick, quick, she melded it with the order on top.
Guests were due at noon and there was much to do: sandwiches needed making, pillows begged a fluffing, tea bags craved iced brewing. In her head beat the march of the domestic wife. Steady. Full. John Phillip Sousa without all the clanging.
Her shoes waited for selection in the often-walked-in-closet and surged with the pent-up energy of young, overly-done girls fighting for composure as the pageant results were nearly announced. She couldn’t stop thinking about was the stain on her blouse in the basement.
Great imagination. I looked at the pic first and thought, what could anyone write about that. This is perfect.
Thank you, had a fun time writing it.
I love the vivid details of everything that’s running through her head. Katie
I like the way your writing marches along in orderly lines like her thoughts. I don’t understand about the stained blouse in the basement though. What’s that about?
Thanks for taking a photo in which I couldn’t see anything to prompt me to write and turning it into an extraordinary piece about Cynthia’s day and her obsessions. You have done an outstanding job! Love your writing style.
I followed the example of another.
http://pinterest.com/pin/264023596874726381/
I must have read that letter a thousand times. My head understood but my heart couldn’t. Life played a dirty trick and now I had to accept the consequences of my behavior. No matter how many different ways I chose to view the situation, one thing remained the same. I was never leaving Paris. Not after having spent a lifetime getting here. But no one back home ever understood me and my dreams. It had to be Paris. No other city in the world offered me the love she did. Paris had been my constant companion since the first time I saw her photograghs.
I will live there someday, and nothing or no one will ever stop me.
But that damn letter could not be ignored. It required a decision. All my happiness existed in the confines of the city. I became a true Bohemian. My creative spirit flourished and the natives loved me for it. I burned with the desire of a mad woman unable to bridle her passions. Oh the anguish in my heart. I can no longer bear it. I had to make peace with the past.
Dear Walter,
I received your letter two weeks ago. I have thought about your proposal for quite some time. I refuse to return and live a lie. My heart belongs to Paris; I can never love another as much as I love her. My life has means something now. No longer a trophy for display. Again my deepest apologies.
Sophie
Hopefully, Walter will join her in Paris. I can see this could be the beginning of a love story…triangle. Walter, the protagonist, and Paris.
It sounds like she has made up her mind and Walter had better plan on living in Paris or else.
Kathryn, it doesn’t appear Walter has any options left to him other than to pack up and move to Paris. However, he could choose not to take that step. You’ve left us with an intriguing mind game — will he? won’t he?
Confession: I am not on Pintrest. Thanks for the invite offer but I’m not going to take you up on it yet. I waste too much time online as it is, and I don’t have internet at home so time online is limited. – Katie
This was my photo:
http://www.houzz.com/photos/28601/More-This—other-metros
Four little girls and freshly made beds. Oh how I wish it could always be this way. Callie, Josey, and Paige playing nicely. Hannah on the flor reading, isn’t she always? If only life would stand still exactly as we are. But it will not. As soon as in a few hours, the covers will be pulled back and four little girls will beg for one more story. Their daddy will cave saying four girls means four books. In the morning, I’ll hussle them to get ready and we’ll fight about making the beds. They’ll say they’re just going to get in them again at night. This is life right now. But all too soon my four little girls will become four teenagers. Then Hannah will be more interested in coodie-less boys than books, Callie will have a new hairstyle (and color, the horror) each week, Josey will dapple with makeup, and Paige will actually be allowed to have a boyfriend rather than the “secret” fling with Adam, a boy from school.
But they won’t even stop there. They’ll keep growing. Boyfriends will become husbands–I pray not all the same summer. The double set of bunkbeds in our home will be occupied by a new set of kids. Those beloved grand children will beg granddaddy for just one more story. And he’ll cave all the more easily, saying it’s the grandparents’ job to spoil the grandchildren. Perhaps by then I’ll have given up on pristinely made beds. Although, I doubt it. For my four little girls turned eight last month, and today the beds are made. When did they get so old? My four little girls and their freshly made beds.
The story of a loving parent. It goes so quickly. I just hope I have grandchildren one day.
Marianne, as a grandma and great-grandma, I hope you have grandchildren one day too. They are a joy and delight, and when they’re not, you can send them back to mama and daddy. 🙂
Katie, loved the concept of four girls sharing a room with four beds. I never had sisters and this room would have been my dream world. And I never had a grandpa; both were dead when I was born. If only I’d had a grandpa to read a story to me. You’ve made my day!
http://pinterest.com/pin/225320787577042382/
I sat her there on the edge of the dock, praying she wouldn’t topple into the still cold water below. She was one at the time. And she loved wiggling her toes through her bath water. Giggling all the while. I hoped to catch the light just so — wanted to reflect the poise of her chubby feet as they dangled. Wanted to capture this moment, this today.
As I focused the lens on her image just so, I began to wonder what she would be when she grew up. Did her love of dabbling her toes in water mean she’d be a swimmer? Maybe an Olympic gold medalist? Only a year into motherhood and I was dreaming big dreams.
Or perhaps those toes would lead her to ballet. Standing at the bar, glancing at herself in the mirror. Wanting to be exact in her movements. No dangling the toes there!
Maybe her talents would lie in her intellectual abilities. If she were like her father, she might be a scientist, maybe a doctor. However, if she took after me, there was no chance for those fields of study, nor in the study of mathematics. Hopefully, she would love literature and reading. Ah, perhaps she would end up a teacher. Although she wouldn’t be making great money based on today’s standards.
Foolish me that I am! Stop that mind surfing about her future. Take your photograph and get her off the edge of that dock. After all, the two of you are out here alone. Start thinking about her safety before her future — at least for this moment.
Then her smile caught my eye through the lens and once again she had captivated me, stolen my heart. How many times had she done that in the past 12 months? More than once, more than twice . . . most likely the sum wasn’t fathomable. At least that was my thought.
She is a little urchin with that smile and those eyes. She knows what they do to me, to her daddy. If anyone is in control, she is the one. It doesn’t take much for her laughter, her waddle, or that smile to win us over no matter the battle.
I’m clicking away hoping that out of all the shots I’ve managed to get while thinking about her future and her winning ways there is one stunning image in the batch. There — there’s one that will be special. Oh, and another!
Once again my mind overtakes me and I begin to think about the possibilities that maybe she has the gift of music in her, perhaps violin or piano or maybe the flute. Any of those are gracious and lovely instruments for a girl to be interested in. But maybe she’ll choose to be a percussionist. I must remember to let her interests lead her to some degree. I can’t make choices for her forever.
Or maybe she’ll be attracted to words. Maybe a writing career or maybe she’ll want to write poetry instead of books. I love words so much myself I selfishly hope for this possibility. Stop with this making choices before she’s started school. Daydreaming can get you in trouble, remember!
She’s beginning to wiggle. I’m afraid she might just scoot herself closer to the edge. And she is! Sloshing through the shallows, I move as quickly as I can toward her. Trying all the while to protect my camera and lenses, I feel awkward as I move. I can’t fall. Not now! Oh, baby girl, sit still. Please sit still! Mama’s coming just as fast as she can.
As I reach the dock, I stretch out my arms and she wiggles forward again, laughing as though nothing were wrong or dangerous. And she catapults herself into my arms! Now I’m crying, so relieved to have her safely with me. And she continues to laugh and pat my face.
Through my tear-filled eyes, I glimpse once again that captivating smile and twinkling eyes that say, “I knew you’d catch me.”
I love that. I was afraid she was a going to drown and was thinking that the story would wind up being about how you might just want her for one more day like she is rather than having dreams about what she will be “one day”. I’m glad you gave it a happy ending. I love the photo you choose.
Marianne, I toyed with the ending going toward sorrow and loss, but just couldn’t bring myself to not try and save her! She’s altogether too cute. 🙂
I also thought the baby was going to meet a tragic end, but I’m glad she landed safely in mom’s arms. I found it interesting that the mom couldn’t help day dreaming about her daughter’s future while she captured “today” in a photograph.
Thanks, Wanda! I suppose the mom part of me prevailed there at the end . . . couldn’t think of letting her drop into the cold water. Funny — I had spent my morning with a group of nine young moms I mentor. Perhaps their discussion today centering around the love of their children and how it is represented through Christ’s resurrection controlled a part of what I wrote.
I too, was afraid she’d fall in. I was hoping she wouldn’t drown. When Mom waded over to get her I visualized the lake where I grew up. The rocks that are so difficult to walk on and we have to wear sneakers to swim. I knew the mother’s struggle as she approached the little girl.
I loved the ending, kids trust their parents to catch them, save them, protect them. Great story.
Thanks, Alice. Appreciate your comments and encouragement.
http://pinterest.com/pin/112519690659572364/
Something was amiss. The carton of eggs I eased from the cold case in the grocers had uneven rows. As I pulled into my drive coming home I noticed the neighbor’s house was totally gone, no signs of debris or demolition to even indicate it had once existed. Odd. Was I starting to hyperventilate? As I walked into the house, pitiful mourning was coming from the den interspersed with jumbled utterances about baseball, cut short, it wasn’t over yet. More mystery to add to my uneasiness.
Down the street I could hear neighborhood children reciting jump rope ditties. Perhaps they were just learning one of the oldies my playmates and I had chanted years ago; the what goes around comes around kind. For the words didn’t sound quite right: “Engine, engine number Ten, going down Chicago line…. I might have to teach them the correct version sometime, I mused, my mind relieved to rest in a more normal thought.
I reached for the sock-covered yardstick standing at attention along the wall inside the kitchen closet. A persistent cobweb needed to be brushed from the corner of the ceiling above the sink Had I shrunk a bit or was my crude cleaning device shorter than the last time I had used it? I couldn’t easily dismiss this detail. Increasingly fearful of what to expect next, I picked up a board book off the living floor where my grandchild had left it the night before. I briefly flipped through the pages thinking some familiar illustrations would somehow soothe the unsettling feeling creeping in; closer. However, I quickly dropped it into the toy basket. Was I imagining it or was a page missing in this counting book: the one with monkeys between the pages of eight alligators and ten ladybugs? I’d rather not double check my premonition.
Perhaps a good night’s sleep will right things. I climb the stairs to bed.
Shopping is on tap for the next day, and I eagerly slide the hangers along the dress rack, looking for something to catch my eye. I pull out a sleeve to read the tag. After checking several prices, it occurs to me that all amounts are in whole dollars. I guess it makes it easier for calculating costs, yet suddenly finding every price tag an even dollar brings back the uneasiness from yesterday. I ask a store clerk for a tape measure to get my waist measurement. More fears are confirmed when my normal 31 inches is now three inches less. However, a slight feeling of pleasure temporarily holds back the wave of panic ready to crest at any moment now. When I can’t find my shoe size and told they don’t make that size anymore I somehow manage to hold onto reason, but quickly leave for home.
I struggle to find a common thread in the uncanny occurrences of the last 24 hours. I twist the radio knob to ‘on’, desperately needing a distraction. My usual station doesn’t come in. The oldies channel next door on the dial announces the upcoming song, “Love Potion Number Ten”. Turning the knob another direction I hear some hillbilly belting out the bottles-of-beer-on-the-wall song only there are bleeps in the lyrics that sound like the singer is hiccupping. When the song finally evens out, the singer has counted down to eighty-eight. Something’s beginning to click inside my head. I sense I’m close to making a connection…
Well, I must leave you now as my fifteen minutes, minus one of writing is up.
Wow. Inspired by a number you never mention. I enjoyed reading this.
Ruth, clever writing with nary a word about the number so boldly shown in the photo!
I had some trouble getting the Pin to come up so read on while it loaded. It took me a minute to catch on so I’d say Sherrey was right, clever! When the pic loaded I had figured out the riddle but got a chuckle when I saw it. Thanks for posting!
Hi Joe!
What a coincidence. Bob Mayer was just tooting the Pinterest horn a while ago too. So I joined up and tried my darndest to figure how to use it. May be that my old computer can’t handle it I don’t know, but I couldn’t seem to download any of my ‘interests’ into picture form. I gave up at the time. Now your post reminds me of that email languishing way down in the Inbox list, waiting to be looked at. Must… make… myself… do… it….
Well now, Yvette, you are officially a member of the writing prompts board. You’ll have to figure it out, now. 🙂
Well now there’s no excuse…gee thanks Joe! Ha ha
No really, thanks 🙂
http://pinterest.com/pin/132996995215907995/
His ears were close to the earth and he heard a desperate sound fill the air. His short walking stick was close to the forest ground, and he felt a desperate vibration rise up to his hand. He wanted to stand straight to get his bearings, but his curled back ached too much. So he stood still and slowly turned his head to the left, then quickly to the right and back again. The desperation lay somewhere to his left.
He moved his crooked body towards the desperate sound. The vibration was getting stronger, and he heard a cat meow from above. What was a cat doing in a tree in the forest? He couldn’t look up, but paused, and waited for another meow. There it was again. The cat was close to the desperation, too.
What would he find? What made him move his aching body towards the sound and vibration? Could whatever it was be saved? Was it a trap? Was the cat going to jump down onto his crooked back toppling him to the ground? The questions raced through his mind but they didn’t make a difference in his conviction.
He was very close now. The desperate sound and vibration was at its peak. His heart began to beat quickly. And then he saw it. A piece of wood was covering a hole. The desperate sound was coming from that hole. The cat meowed again, louder. He wondered if it was a black cat, and if he was crossing its path.
He wondered if he was strong enough to move the wooden lid. He tested it with the tip of his short cane and felt it wasn’t heavy at all, but nevertheless it would be painful to move. He braced himself, and pushed the cane against the edge, and it moved ever so slightly but just enough to free hundreds of butterflies.
They swarmed around him for a few moments, and he heard the cat meow. And with that, the butterflies left him. He couldn’t look up to watch them revel in their freedom but the desperation was gone, and he too felt free.
Wanda, what a beautifully expressive description of the photo you chose. At first, I felt as if something terribly awful was happening to the poor bent fellow. But somewhere my thoughts turned to those butterflies fluttering around him and hoped they were going to be his discovery!
Oh my! Wanda. You made that picture come alive.
I’d forgotten the butterflies by the time the old man lifted the lid. You had me. I was in suspense as to what he was going to find. Loved the ending about freedom.
soemthing indeed amiss.. I couldn’t manage this site at all… it kept hanging on me and timing out. I’ll have to give this fascinating exercise a miss.
What a totally fun idea to have a group prompt board. I should figure that out for the end of our Rumors book club over at Tweetspeak, since people have begun to create prompts. The chimp prompt might just be my favorite so far 🙂
Thanks Laura! Yes, you certainly should. Thanks for dropping by 🙂
Hey Joe,
I’m onreact at onreact.com – feel free to invite me and add me to Pinterest.
Sincerely, Tad
Hi Tad,
Sure thing. I’ll just need your email address 🙂
Joe
I added it above in the comment but never mind I’m on Pinterest now by myself: http://pinterest.com/onreact/
http://pinterest.com/pin/264023596874749112/
Standing at the Crossroads… Again.
This dust on my boots is familiar enough. Been wandering for years I guess. Sometimes it might look like I’m settled as the next guy… not so. There’s never been any regret to it and for the most I’d have to say I prefer it over anything else I’ve seen, and I’ve seen a bunch as I pass through the deep-rooted towns and generational homes. But here is where I like it least. Here is where I think about calling it quits, putting my boots by a door and letting the grass grown under me.
It’s not that I don’t expect to be here, at the crossroads. This isn’t new. That’s probably why I hate it here. Been here before, and fouled it up plenty. It should be damn simple! Turn this way or that – go on man, do it! Just get it over with and get to moving again. You know you don’t do it well, so just start walking and whatever will be, will be. Except that I’m not a young man anymore. Not so long ago I felt like a had a million miles left in me. Strength for the hills, steadiness for the rocks, eyes to see on the dark, moonless nights. That’s not how it is now. Shadows creep up beside me before I can know them. The rocks punish my worn out knees and the hills, well let’s just say that I’ve chosen to go around or hitch a ride once or twice of late. This time, I’ve got to make the right move. This time could be the last.
This time I find I’m not so quick to wave goodbye to folks I know here. Kindness and charity mean more to a man who finds himself in need of it, and admits it. And that means I have to admit that these folks have been both charitable and kind to me and I admit to needing it. If I turn the wrong way here, I could end up in a pack of wolves. They’ll see me weak, or weaker at least. They’ll know my eyes are going and see the limp I try so hard to hide. They’ll see it and they’ll know and they’ll try to take me. Damn I wish I could see farther down that road, or that one… Folks are happening by now and wishing me a safe journey. These are good folks. I’m going to miss them.
What’s it like to spend life feeling like you’re in a burning building and you have to get out? I’ll tell you it’s not the stuff of fairy tales for sure. But it keeps me looking around all the time. So much that I have seen things many will never hear tell of, let alone see with their own eyes. Jealousy for those who are content to settle does slip in but I don’t mind it long because the road is my muse. And I will court her until I am spent. On that day, root me firm in the ground and let the grass grow as it will. I’m away…
I was somewhere over Islamabad, when he was born. Sitting on the edge of the bird, as it climbed into the air, flying into the flickering dawn. Mirrored shades protected my eyes and my tears from both the harsh light and my buddies who were pumped up, ready for action.
We were headed into combat – we knew there would be fierce fighting. I wondered would I survive and the tears fell more heavily.
A tough guy in tears. Tears of desperation. I’d received the message that Lou had gone into labour just before I fastened my flak jacket and walked out onto the sand towards the helicopter. She was in labour I was at war – we were both in battle.
On the other side of the world a little boy called Jonah, who’s name means peace, came quickly into this life and took his first breath of air. Would he forgive me for not being at his birth? Would he care? Could I ever forgive myself? How deeply I felt his presence, his existence, even though I had not met him.
Months later, I was in the air again. This time on a plane, heading west away from the rising sun. I was going home. Home to meet Jonah. My son. My firstborn. My flesh and blood. What would it be like to hold him in my arms? Would I know what to do? Would he know who I was? Would he understand how much I loved him? Would he know he was the apple of Poppa’s eye? Would we bond? These questions played tag in my head. Eventually sleep came and the tag stopped.
When I stepped off the plane I was shaking. By the time I saw them across the concourse, I was sobbing. Then he was in my arms, how tiny his little body felt as I held him to my heart. A physical pain unlike anything that had ever come before shot through me as tears fell – this reunion so joyful, was heart wrenching.
Nicky Cahill
April 2012
A pleasure to link up with you today Joe, if somewhat later, than the post was posted!